The Quicksilver Pool

By Phyllis A. Whitney

From a New York Times–bestselling author: After the Civil War, a young Confederate bride finds herself living in the shadow of her husband’s first love.
 
Having lost her fiancé in battle, Lora Blair knew it was the heartache of war, not true love, that drew her to Union soldier Wade Tyler, a grieving widower who still mourned his late wife, Virginia. Married quickly in the ravished little Southern border town where Lora was born, they headed back North to Wade’s Staten Island mansion, where he lives with his motherless son and bitterly unwelcoming family.
 
It’s not just Lora’s Southern roots among wealthy Yankees that are met with severe disapproval. Lora knows that she’ll forever be in the shadow of Wade’s adored, devotedly maternal, and peerlessly beautiful first wife. Though her most dangerous opposition is yet to come, Lora must face the secrets hidden in the Tylers’ past—including those Virginia took with her to an early grave.
 
The recipient of the Agatha Award for Lifetime Achievement, Phyllis A. Whitney is “a superb and gifted storyteller” (Mary Higgins Clark).
 
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Phyllis A. Whitney including rare images from the author’s estate.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504047241

Phyllis A. Whitney

Born in Yokohama, Japan, on September 9, 1903, Phyllis A. Whitney was a prolific author of award-winning adult and children’s fiction. Her sixty-year writing career and the publication of seventy-six books, which together sold over fifty million copies worldwide, established her as one of the most successful mystery and romantic suspense writers of the twentieth century and earned her the title “The Queen of the American Gothics.” Whitney resided in several places, including New Jersey. She traveled to every location mentioned in her books in order to better depict the settings of her stories. She earned the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master award in 1988, the Agatha in 1990, and the lifetime achievement award from the Society of Midland Authors in 1995. Whitney was working on her autobiography at the time of her passing at the age of 104.  

Book preview

I

One bright smile shone among more sober faces in the ferry crowd that evening as a tall young woman in her early thirties walked proudly aboard beside her husband in Union blue. To have your captain home for Christmas—that was cause for joy, and Serena Lord revealed her feelings in the look of love she turned upon him.

They hurried through the lower precincts, which smelled strongly of cigar smoke and horses, and mounted the stairs to the draughty upper cabin. Here they found a seat not too far from the circle of warmth cast by a glowing stove, and Edgar Lord seated his wife, hoops and all, with a slightly military flourish before he took his place beside her.

Serena was a handsome woman, far from stingily built, though she carried her buxom quality well, thanks to her height and good-sized bones. Beneath the peak of her green bonnet rusty red hair shone in the light of kerosene lamps, and there was a saucy sprinkling of reddish freckles across her nose. But it was her eyes that made you look twice—warm and brown and alive with interest. Even now as she sat with her hand tucked through the crook of her husband’s arm, as if she could not let him go for a moment, her lively gaze found time to note other passengers, so that she might smile and bow to those she recognized, speculate about those who were strangers.

Paddle wheels churned the waters of New York harbor to a froth and black smoke studded with sparks poured from tall stacks as the ferry pulled away from the Whitehall slip for the last trip of the evening to Staten Island. There was the usual sprinkling of uniforms among the passengers and the all too frequent evidence of wounds or crippling.

As the war wound along through its second year uniforms had begun to look less spruce, the brass of buttons had tarnished a bit and the expression of men in blue had grown more grim. No one talked these days of licking the foolish South in a hurry. Though Christmas was only two weeks off, New York had been unable to whip itself into a festive spirit. With the disaster of Fredericksburg so recently upon them, the hospitals so full and the prospect of victory doubtful and distant, it was difficult to stir up any semblance of holiday joy.

A few moments after the boat left the slip Serena noted with recognition a soldier who leaned on a single crutch, swinging himself painfully toward a bench not far distant in the center of the cabin. At his side moved a slightly built girl in a brown mantle and drab brown bonnet. The man’s cheeks were hollowed, his blue eyes sunken, but there was still the mark of extraordinary good looks upon him. Dark brown hair grew thickly back from a brow which belonged more to a man of thought than of action. Remembering him in a happier role, pity rose in Serena.

Don’t look now, she whispered to her husband, but in a moment … there, she’s helping him down. Edgar, that’s Wade Tyler!

Edgar nodded gravely. You wrote that he’d been wounded. He looks ill too. Is he just coming home?

He must be, Serena said, her gaze flicking away, then swiftly back so that she could study the girl. I saw his mother only yesterday, but she said nothing about his returning. And I asked about him too. But then, that’s like the old lady. Do you suppose he’s brought home a new wife?

Why not? Edgar smiled at his wife’s familiar flaring of curiosity. The sooner he forgets Virginia the better.

I’m sorry for the girl then, said Serena firmly. Going into a gloomy old house with a woman who is an invalid, to say nothing of that difficult little boy. Edgar, do you suppose we could go over and speak to them? After all, I grew up with Wade. It seems discourteous not to greet him and—

Let him be, said her husband gently. He looks worn out. This is no time for neighborly chatter. If they need help when we dock, we’ll go speak to them then.

Serena had to be satisfied with that. She tightened her hand in an affectionate squeeze upon her husband’s arm and gave all her attention to him for a few moments. But her curious interest soon turned again to the girl and she speculated silently.

Wade’s companion was a thin, rather drab little thing. Her brown mantle looked shabby and her hoops were unfashionably small. The strings of her bonnet, though neatly tied, were frayed. Well, Mrs. Tyler would change all that. She would never tolerate shabbiness in her son’s wife. Not with her exalted opinion of the Cowles-Tyler position to uphold.

Virginia was so pretty, Serena mused. I wonder what he could have seen in this girl. She’s brown as a winter berry and as plain. I wonder if he’s got himself another meek one.

Edgar chuckled. You women! And especially you, my dear. It must always be hard to guess what any man sees in another girl. But since you’re going to pay no attention to me until your curiosity is satisfied, let me tell you about her.

It was an old game they used to play—making up stories about people they did not know. Serena’s brown eyes sparkled and she hung on his words.

I doubt that she has married him for his money, Edgar went on. She doesn’t seem that sort, even though wealth is obviously not a part of her world. So it must be love.

Serena nodded. The girls always fell in love with the Tyler charm—all except me. That’s the way it was with his father before him. Though he was a different sort—that one.

I think, Edgar went on, that she is not meek. If you’ll note—there’s a set to her chin, a certain firmness of mouth. I’d like to see her smile—she might surprise us.

But the girl with Wade Tyler did not smile. Now and then she glanced solicitously at the man beside her, but she did not touch him. Her hands lay quietly in her lap, as tanned as her face, the gold wedding band their only ornament. They were square, sturdy hands, the nails short and broken—not the well-kept hands of a lady.

Wade winced, apparently at a twinge of pain from his leg, and she bent toward him anxiously. Serena could not hear her words, but the girl evidently persuaded him to stretch out on the empty seat, to sleep if he could and rest his wounded leg. His cavalry uniform, with its lieutenant’s insignia, was far shabbier than Edgar’s and had been patched in several places. He stretched out willingly and seemed to fall at once into exhausted slumber. His wife bent over him for a moment, touched his forehead lightly, as if to reassure herself that he had not fever, and then sat back in her seat, her dark eyes looking straight ahead unseeingly, as if she were hardly aware of those about her.

Jemmy Tyler needs a mother, Serena murmured softly. If it weren’t for Adam I don’t know what he’d do these days. Adam’s been fine with the boys.

How is Adam? Edgar asked.

Serena considered for a moment. Her brother had been released from Libby Prison in an exchange only two months before and it was still too early to say how he was. He needed to recover his strength and there were still fever bouts. He’d always had a wry twist of mind and now he sometimes seemed very bitter. But he had been wonderful with her own two boys, and especially kind to Jemmy Tyler. Before she could find words to answer her husband, the girl in shabby brown suddenly rose and walked toward the ladies’ cabin. Serena saw her chance. She waited no more than forty seconds, then excused herself to her husband, who nodded in amused understanding, and followed the girl into the cabin.

Here there was red upholstery, curtains of red rep and a watery mirror. To her satisfaction, Serena saw that they had the place to themselves. The younger woman had taken off her bonnet and was smoothing down dark brown wings of hair drawn over her ears from a center part. At the back of her neck a snood held a thick, lustrous coil and her fingers worked absently at a more secure pinning. She paid no attention to Serena’s entrance, but continued to stare at her image in the wavery glass as if she looked at some person she did not know and about whom she was curious.

Serena coughed gently and when that attracted no attention, she stepped to the girl’s side and frankly held out her hand.

Good evening, she said. I am Serena Lord, Mrs. Edgar Lord. I would like to welcome you to Staten Island. My husband and I are neighbors of the Tylers, just along the lane.

The girl threw her a startled look, then seemed to gain reassurance from Serena’s warm smile, and gave her small, rough hand into the older woman’s clasp.

Thank you, she said. It is nice to meet a neighbor so quickly. I am Lora Blair. That is—color darkened her cheeks—"that is, I’m Lora Blair Tyler now. I keep forgetting."

Serena’s laugh was warm as her smile. I know! I can remember doing that myself in the beginning. Of course you realize I followed you in here deliberately because I was curious about whether Wade was bringing home a new wife. I’m glad he is.

Unexpectedly the girl smiled, and Edgar had been right. Her teeth were whitely even, her lips generous, and the smile lighted her face to prettiness. She would never be a beauty, but when the dark weight of worry and weariness lifted, there was a bright look of youth about her that was appealing. Serena’s ready heart was touched.

You must come to see us very soon, she said.

The smile faded and the look of doubt returned to cloud the young face. I’d love to—but my husband—well, you see …

Serena nodded. Don’t let him mope in that old house, my dear. Or if he will not come out, then run away to visit me yourself. Any time you are lonely. Or if anything should go wrong. Not that it will, of course, she added hastily.

Lora Tyler bowed and turned gravely back to the mirror. Serena had the feeling that while the girl had warmed to her for an instant, she had as quickly forgotten she was there. Without further speech Serena slipped out of the cabin and went back to her husband.

Forgive me, Edgar, she told him contritely. I simply had to greet that poor, lonely little thing.

Of course, he said. I’d love you less if you weren’t ready to take every lost kitten to your heart. But now you are to forget her and attend only to me.

Her hand was upon his arm again. I have never for a moment stopped attending to you. Edgar, I wonder if she knows about Morgan Channing?

Edgar sighed in mock resignation. What does it matter? The fascinating Mrs. Channing spends most of her time abroad these days, does she not?

She’s coming home, Serena said. They’re opening up the big house and when I saw Ambrose the other day he told me she was due any time now. None of us who knew Morgan and Wade in the old days is likely to forget that stormy affair.

I think it hardly matters now, Edgar repeated. All that belongs to the past before he married Virginia. And now we will talk about no one but you.

Back in the ladies’ cabin, Lora Blair Tyler tied the frayed ribbons of her bonnet and stared at her own somber reflection. Already she had forgotten Serena, returning to the treadmill of her concern. Had she made the right move in this step she had taken? Or had she done a dangerous, wicked thing that would bring disaster upon Wade as well as herself? It was so hard to know. Nothing was clear and simple any more. She turned away and went back into the wavering lamplight of the main cabin.

A glance assured her that Wade still slept in complete oblivion, in spite of the vibration of the boat, and she did not for the moment return to his side. Restlessness drove her and she walked toward the front of the ferry to glass windows where she could look out at the water. December cold seeped in upon her through the cracks and she drew her brown mantle more closely about her, pulled neatly darned gloves over her hands. She had lived too long on the rim of the South and her blood was thin. But the cold woke her, drove lethargy from her veins, and she peered ahead anxiously toward the dark mound that rose out there across the black waters of the harbor. It was a mound sprinkled with pinpoints of yellow light and she knew it must be the island. What lay ahead of her there she could not tell, but she straightened her shoulders, knowing she must face without faltering this life she had chosen.

Yet, even as she accepted this, a name flashed unbidden through her mind as it had so often in these last months. Martin, she thought. Oh, Martin!

The ringing of his name in her mind carried her back to that October day in Pineville when she had stood in the kitchen of her father’s house washing dishes after the noon meal. She had been thinking of him then too, and she had not even started at the sound of shots, though they meant skirmishes again on the edge of town, perhaps in the very streets. Pineville was on the border, neither wholly North nor South, and many a time since Sumter blue uniforms or gray had marched its streets.

To Doc Blair it made no difference what color a soldier wore if he were wounded or in need. Her father’s great hatred was for war itself, for its wicked wastefulness of life. All his long working years had been spent in saving life and he boiled with anger against governments which valued it so little. She was glad he had dropped into heavy sleep in the darkened parlor that afternoon. He took so little time for rest these days.

Her hands in soapy water, she had returned to thoughts of Martin. They would have been married on his next leave. A leave that now would never come. He had died of wounds in Kentucky some two months before and she still could not believe it. No one she had ever known had been so gaily, so vitally alive as Martin. The little that had been carefree in her own life had vanished with his dying. Nothing mattered to her now except her father.

The rattle of shots sounded in the very street outside the house, but she was at the back and only hoped dully that her father would not hear, that no one would be hurt, that no new panes would be broken. It was not until she heard the front door open that she snatched up a towel to dry her hands and ran into the front hall.

The door stood ajar and Doc was running down the steps into sunlight when she called after him, while a riderless horse screamed in the street.

Her father snapped at her over his shoulder, Feller by the front gate. Needs me! and on he went.

She looked up and down the street in fright and saw the handful of cavalry, heard again the ugly rattle of shots. Shots not intended for the town’s citizenry, but playing no favorites if the wrong man got in the way. Even as she stood helpless in the doorway, the damp towel twisted in her hands, she saw her father crumple, saw the familiar crimson seeping against his white shirt.

He was coughing when she reached him, the bright, betraying bubbles on his lips. She bent above him and he clutched at her, choking out words.

Feller needs help. Never … mind … me. Get … him …

He sagged in her arms and the crimson spread against her white apron. She knew. She had seen men die before. And as suddenly as this. No tears came because what was happening could not be. Her father was needed so badly—by others as well as herself. Doc Blair had always considered God his good friend, and surely He would not reward a life of faithful service by an act such as this. But apparently He had and Lora could only hold her father numbly against her heart while the warm October sun beat upon her head and there was a galloping in the street.

A voice shouted at her suddenly, angrily. Gawd’s sake, ma’am, get in the house! Y’lost y’senses?

She looked up dully to note without interest that the boy on the prancing horse wore gray. The wounded horse screamed again and the Confederate soldier hesitated, perhaps counting the waste of good ammunition, then leaned from his saddle to put a bullet through the beast’s head. A moment later he was gone and the horse lay quivering in the dust. Near at hand someone moaned in pain.

Go get him, Doc had said. But why should she? If it had not been for that sprawled heap of blue out there in the dusty road her father would not have thrown away his own life, wasted it so cruelly. She held him closer against her heart, but in her mind he seemed to speak to her sternly from the dimness into which he had gone. "It is wasted if that boy dies too. I came out to save him, Lorie. Now you go do it."

She knew him so well.

Gently she lowered him to the grass beside the path and got shakily to her feet. The heap of blue in the road had turned into a man with a thick shock of tumbled brown hair and eyes that looked at her in agony as she stepped into the street.

It was a good thing she had worked hard all her life, was strong, for all her small size. Her sturdy hands raised him beneath the armpits, dragged him through the gate. There was blood against his shoulder, more upon his left thigh. He cried out in pain just once and after that bit his lips and did not hinder her.

The steps were hardest to manage, but she got him up them and into the parlor. This would not be the first time it had served as hospital and a cot stood ready. He roused himself then, on good arm and leg, and fell onto it, fainting with pain. She went to work at once in ways her father had taught her. Scissors first, to cut away clinging strands of blue, then warm water.…

She worked like a machine, without thought, without sympathy for the man on the cot, without feeling for herself. Part of her remembered that her father lay in the yard, untended in the bright sun. But she knew he would not care. Not so long as she did his bidding.

October … how long ago. Now it was nearly Christmas.

The ferry had cut its speed and through the spray-dotted glass before her Lora saw the nearness of lights, of land. She went quickly back to the man who lay stretched asleep on the bench where she had left him. As she bent over him she wondered if he would look up and call her Virginia as he had done so many times in his long fever and delirium.

A moment of panic swept through her, of sudden intense consciousness. What had she done in marrying Wade Tyler? She knew far better than he that he loved not her, but only his lost Virginia. Knew too, in all honesty, that she did not love him, except in a way of tenderness and pity that she would have felt toward any helpless being.

Then he opened his eyes, smiled at her and she was herself again, strong and sure. This was what mattered. Only this.

When Edgar Lord and Serena came to offer their help in leaving the ferry, she was grateful to them. She had liked Serena at once and it was a relief that she need not deal with the entire problem of getting Wade and their bundles off the boat by herself.

Wade shook hands with Edgar cheerfully and flashed his winning smile at Serena. Then he swung himself up on his single crutch while Edgar reached for Doc’s old carpetbag.

Good to see you both, Wade said. But we’ll be all right. If Peter hasn’t followed instructions to meet this boat I’ll wring his skinny old neck when I get my hands on him.

That’s the spirit, Edgar said. Nevertheless, he and Serena stayed close by until Peter himself—a lanky fellow with a wide grin—came to greet them. He touched his cap to Lora and gave her a quick look before he turned his attention to Wade and the problem of helping him into the carriage.

Your mother’s waiting, Mr. Wade, he said when they were settled and he had tucked the buffalo robe around them.

I would suspect as much, said Wade dryly. Under the thick fur his hand found Lora’s, held it tight, and she knew he was not wholly confident of the coming meeting with his mother.

II

Steam from the breath of the horses smoked in the frosty air and there was a jangle of harness as they stamped the ground restlessly. From his seat Peter flapped the reins and the carriage turned onto the rutty, frozen ground of the road. Lamps from hacks and other carriages shone in the gloom near the landing, but Lora had already lost sight of the Lords.

As the Tyler carriage followed a course which ran parallel with the long, dark ridge of hills, Wade gestured toward the hillside.

Do you see those three clusters of lights up there above us? That’s where Dogwood Lane curves around and makes a loop. The lights on the lower right are those of our house, the ones farther on along the hill are at the Lords’.

There were many more lights shining in the Lord windows and to Lora’s eyes their welcome seemed somehow warm and bright. The fewer lights at the Tylers’ had a spare, cold look. There she went again with her ready imaginings, she chided herself, and turned her attention to higher lights on the hill far above.

I see you have other neighbors. Who lives in the house on the hilltop? she asked.

Wade’s fingers slackened about her own, and she sensed withdrawal as he spoke. The name is Channing. We do not care for their society.

She put the matter by as having no particular interest for her at the moment. It was not the neighbors who concerned her, but the woman who waited for her son to bring home his new wife.

Lora had exchanged several letters with Wade’s mother in the days of his illness. She had written to her at once when she found the address among his papers and Mrs. Tyler had replied, sending money, asking that no expense be spared in the care of her son. But there had been no one to care for him except Lora herself, for Pineville had no second doctor and there was no nearby Union hospital to which he could be moved, or encampment to which she could appeal. She had written to his company, but the letter had been delayed and there was no answer until she no longer needed their help.

The superficial shoulder wound healed quickly and cleanly, but the state of his leg had frightened her. She knew about the horrors of amputation if gangrene set in. But somehow, miraculously, the leg was healing in its own way, though it would be long months before it would carry his weight without aid.

The letters from Mrs. Tyler had been curt and faintly imperious, but Lora had sensed her anxiety and had written fully and warmly in return. She learned that Mrs. Tyler could not come to her son because she was bound to a wheelchair existence. Later, during Wade’s convalescence, Lora had asked about Mrs. Tyler’s injury and he had told her briefly that his mother had fallen downstairs some years before.

In the long days when she had fought death away from her patient, Lora’s own capacity to feel pain had returned and with it had come tenderness and pity for Wade. That the girl he called for through his fever was the wife who had died a year before, she was quick to discern, and the fact that he too had suffered a loss drew them more closely together. Wade’s need of her, the way he began to cling to her and take some cheer from her presence, had increased the tenderness of her own feeling toward him, though at the same time she had shrunk a little within herself as she sensed what might be happening.

While there was never any time when she sought to dream Wade into Martin’s place, that was what he was plainly doing with her and his memory of Virginia. He seemed to take joy in finding new resemblances between her own gentleness with him and the gentle ways of Virginia. Lora had struggled against this for a time—insisting that she was not Virginia, and not like Virginia, that it was dangerous for him to build such a likeness in his mind. But when he clung to her in desperate need, she could not chide him.

The silence in the carriage had grown heavy and she wrenched herself back to the demands of the present. The horses were walking now, as they climbed the steepening road toward the crest of the hill.

She reached again for Wade’s left hand beneath the fur robe. As her fingers touched it she felt through her thin gloves the jagged scar that marked palm and back where something had pierced it long ago.

You must be anxious to see Jemmy, she said. As anxious as I am to meet him. I suppose he’ll be waiting at the door to greet you.

She felt him stir beside her as he drew his hand from beneath the robe. Jemmy is not given to demonstrative action, Lora. He is a strange child, as I’ve tried to make you understand. Not at all like his mother. It may be that he will disappoint you.

He will not, she asserted firmly. I’ve told you about the little brother who died a few years after my mother. Jemmy is going to take his place. Besides, you’ll remember that I’ve been a schoolmarm for the last few years, and I like little boys.

Wade said nothing. He had leaned back against the seat and she knew he was weary to the point of exhaustion. The miserably long ride on the jerky train, with its frequent stops, had been hard to endure. She must be quiet now, let him gather his forces against the encounter ahead.

She felt that it had been wrong not to write his mother of their marriage until just before they left home. There had been no time for Amanda Tyler to answer. But that was the way Wade had wished it. Last night and today they had stayed at the St. Nicholas Hotel in New York, and Wade had sent a message to the island for Peter to meet the last ferry tonight. But he had rested badly at the hotel and the intended respite had not helped him.

She sighed and her breath misted the air within the carriage. How strange to be going as a bride to her husband’s home in so cheerless a manner as this. All her plans with Martin had been full of laughter and teasing and gaiety. He had grown up across the street, always known to her, pulling her pigtails when she was little, kissing her under the mistletoe at Christmas time a few years later. How long ago it all seemed to her twenty-two years. Martin had still been a boy when he had gone to fight for the Union cause, and somehow her girlhood had gone with him. Already she felt that she was older than Martin had ever been and that perhaps he would not recognize her now. She felt older even than Wade, who was her senior by seven years.

The horses were turning, the carriage wheels bumping over a driveway, and Wade awoke from his uneasy doze with a start. A moment later they had come to a halt before a flight of porch steps and Peter had dismounted from his seat to open the carriage door. Lora got out quickly and while Peter helped Wade, she stood looking up at the tall, frowning house before her. Candlelight flickered in the hallway, and there was a lamp in the window of a front room upstairs, but that was all. There were no parlor lights in evidence. The frowning aspect, she decided, was due to peaked eaves and a narrowness of architecture. It took a generously wide house to smile.

The door opened as she moved up the steps beside Wade and a bobbing little woman in a black dress and white apron, with a white mobcap on her head, appeared in the doorway. This, Lora knew, was Ellie, Peter’s wife—both long in the service of Mrs. Tyler.

Ellie’s smile was toothy but fond as she greeted Wade. Like her husband she had only a quick glance for her new mistress, as if she dared not look too closely until a higher jurisdiction sanctioned her interest.

Your mother’s waiting for ye, Mr. Wade. It’s better you see her first afore ye go upstairs. Though your room’s sparkling ready. She darted a look at Lora and added, An’ yours too, Miz Tyler.

Lora thanked her and stepped into the dimly lighted hall. It was a narrow hall, running past dark, closed doors on right and left, vanishing toward the rear of the house. At one side rose a steep, equally narrow staircase, with a dark-red runner mounting toward the second floor.

Since the hallway was too narrow to permit easy passage of two side by side when one swung a crutch, Lora stepped back for her husband to go ahead. She had a sudden reluctance to face the old woman who waited for them in the back parlor. Her gaze sought the stair landing and the railing above, half expecting to see the bright eyes of an eight-year-old boy peering down at her. But the upper hall was dark and there was no small boy watching for his father.

The stale chill of the unheated hallway penetrated to Lora’s bones as the outside cold had not done, and she found her teeth chattering as she followed Wade. Ellie scuttled ahead to open the door and announced their coming with a bobbed curtsy to the woman who waited there.

Come in, come in and shut the door! commanded a voice that was firm of texture, with no quaver of age to mar its resonance.

Ellie gave Lora a nervous shove, giggled an apology, and shut herself promptly into the hall, leaving the others in the room. Lora was aware of a wave of heat and an odor of wintergreen, of firelight flickering on the ceiling and a lamp aglow on a round walnut table. Then Wade stepped to the side of his mother’s chair and she could see for the first time the woman who sat there.

Amanda Tyler wore full black skirts without hoops; black relieved only by the round lace collar and cameo pin at her throat. She sat tall in her chair and one sensed a backbone that was well trained, even though her injured hip had betrayed her. Her hair was still brown, with only a streaking of gray at the temples, though she was well past sixty, and her eyes were remarkably blue and unfaded. There was no evidence of past beauty here, but the strength of will was plain. This was a woman accustomed to her own way, who held her own strong convictions.

She raised her hands to her son and as Wade bent gallantly to kiss them, Lora noted the flash of jewels against their whiteness. Here were beautiful, well-kept hands, betraying age in the blue tracery of veins, but cared for, nevertheless, and revealing a certain vanity on the part of their possessor. Lora had removed her mended gloves, but now she wished they still hid her own rough hands.

Wade turned to present her and she moved forward into the firelight to face sharp blue eyes and take the hand extended to her. It felt cold and dry in her own, like parchment that might crumple if she pressed it, but the strength of the thin fingers startled her.

My wife, Lora, said Wade and she sensed the stirring of anxiety in him.

The old lady released her hand as if the touch of it displeased her, but her gaze did not waver.

I shall want to know all about you, Lora, Mrs. Tyler said bluntly. But that will keep for later. I can see that my son is weary. So now I will merely thank you for your kindness in caring for him. Though I still question your wisdom in trying to do it yourself.

There wasn’t anyone else, Mother, Wade said gently. For a while the Confederates were between us and our own lines. If it were not for Lora I might not be here now.

Then I am grateful indeed, said Mrs. Tyler, but her eyes remained cold. It was not necessary, she seemed to imply, to marry one’s nurse out of gratitude.

Wade, however, seemed to have thrown off his first uneasiness over this meeting with his mother. The rosy firelight had lessened his pallor. It found bright highlights in the thick dark hair which he wore long above his collar in the fashion of the day. His somewhat ascetic good looks had not been impaired by his thinness and to Lora’s eyes he looked at the moment like a portrait she had once seen of a famous English poet.

It’s good to be home, Mother, Wade said and touched her shoulder with the hand not engaged with his crutch.

No word had been spoken of his son and Lora could contain herself no longer.

I’m very anxious to meet Jemmy, she said. Has he gone to bed by now?

Mrs. Tyler threw her a look which discouraged friendly interest. He has indeed. Though this is Friday and a school day he had to stay home. All day long he refused to eat a bite and at dinner I insisted that he finish every scrap of his meal. I will not have such nonsense. But he has thrown it up since, disgracefully. Weak stomachs never ran in my family—this must be an inheritance from your father’s side, Wade. At any rate, he should be asleep by now and I suggest that you do not disturb him.

A sapphire sparked blue fire as she reached her hand to a small bell on the table beside her. Its chime was silver-clear and hung vibrantly in the air for a second or two before fading. At once Ellie appeared, letting in a chill breath from the hallway.

The old woman nodded to her. Will you show Mrs. Tyler to her room, please. You will have your old room, of course, Wade. And while you did not give us much time, Ellie tells me she has done her best with the rear guest room for Lora. I will say good night now, Lora. But perhaps, Wade, you will stay with me for a moment?

Of course, Mother, Wade said and smiled at Lora, who stood uneasy and hesitant, not knowing what was expected of her.

Mrs. Tyler gave her a nod of dismissal and Lora spoke a quick good night to Wade and went into the dim hallway. A candle in Ellie’s hand lighted their way up the narrow staircase to the hall above.

Your room’s at the back on the left, Ellie explained. Mr. Wade’s is across the hall at the front. And that other front room is—was Miss Virginia’s. Jemmy’s room’s right back here across from yours. She waved the candle toward the dark wood of a closed door.

How is Jemmy? Lora whispered.

Ellie shook her head. He’s been chucking up all evening. I think he does it on purpose. How an angel as sweet as his dear mother could have such a changeling for a son, I’m sure I don’t— She broke off, for the blank door had given way suddenly to a patch of lamplight and a small figure stood in the opening.

Jemmy Tyler was wearing a long flannel nightshirt that hung below his knees and his feet were bare on the cold floor. The dark shock of hair that tumbled over his forehead was like his father’s, but there any resemblance ended. He had none of his father’s good looks, though his eyes were dark blue and hauntingly intense.

Good evening, Jemmy, Lora said quietly, making no move toward him.

Jemmy troubled with no amenities. I know who you are, he announced directly. "But you’re not my mother and I’m not going to do what

Reviews for The Quicksilver Pool

[jalenv_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Well, it's been almost five years since I borrowed a copy of The Quicksilver Pool through interlibrary loan. Last month I bought a book club edition of the book. It was originally published in 1955. This BCE includes a copy of the two-page endpaper color illustration of a scene from chapter 11. I also like the dust jacket.